Room
by Portia6
Summary: A Broken Saints ficlet. What goes on in this room...


I do not own BS.  
  
The room was blank.   
  
The best way to describe in his mind. The bland walls did nothing to clue in any possible location that suggested familiarity, nor smells that promised comfort. It could have been black, but the weaving of white memories made it impossible to tell. All he knew was that it was blank.   
  
Nothing more.  
  
Nothing less.  
  
He looked around, unable to move yet unrestrained physically. The mind instead wanders to this curiousity of his bounds, which had yet to be seen. He looked over, wincing at the still loss of his arm. Not even transferred reality could heal all old wounds.   
  
Blankess prevails in the bleak void of this dream, for that was the only thing that mattered in that second. It would only take another to disrupt the balance.  
  
The softness of feet approached, looming shadows that casted threatening auras meant to be avoided. He could stare in transfixed wonder, did not dare to attempt to touch this spectral ghost. It was meant for him, yet delieverance could be only brought by this captor's hand.  
  
It was meant to be.  
  
"Do you see the danger?"  
  
"...yes."  
  
"You know that you cannot move."  
  
"I know."  
  
"Then why stare into the eyes of your adoring enemy."  
  
It was a statement, rather than a question. The finality and clipped words ripped one of the many wounds on his heart open, only to have it eased back together by tender, poisoned fingers. Not closed, but to not let the blood flow without barrier.  
  
This shape looms, then kneels. Trembling, hate filled hands touch the battered, stubbly face blindly. They seek the old features that it once knew so well, but only finds the face of a changed yet undiffering stranger. They are at first hard, but grow soft to caress his cheekbones slowly, lost in musing.  
  
"This face is one I love, who I accepted. But does it's underlying heart stay true?|  
  
"This heart kills no more.....I have found better places. Better living. Better people."  
  
The hands grow slower, taking their time to run over the hard ridge of a nose.  
  
"Better than me? You shoudl think twice, old friend.....I am your platonic lover, your death, your pain, your hope...all of you rolled into one aspect of your many hearts."  
  
" Yet you die in disgrace?"  
  
The hands stop, and the other takes his cue, speaking with calm steadiness.  
  
"Is there not something missing me? Is there not someone missing me?"  
  
"I miss you...I love you...but I do not dwell on you."  
  
The voice grows higher, tipped with darts. "I am The Sacrifice, but you refuse to try for me."  
  
" I miss your absence, too much to let you fade...but times have changed. I am a man of different morals."  
  
The figure trembles once more, lured out of a trance of docility.   
  
"I am The Sacrifice" he hisses "Yet you refuse me. I ask you again and again to come and forgive me for this unbearable sin, and you do. But I feel your words with less and less emotion than before. You owe me your mind, your body, your soul. I am The Sacrifice that allowed you to live, to not be burdened by this last final sin."  
  
"I know." The man is calm, and he never lifts or lowers his gaze.  
  
"YOU corrupted me....remember that, your hand guided me into this world of death and blood and sin, to kill and be killed without the honor of a better man." The figure collpases to his knees, and his brownish red eyes spark and glow with painful anger, hands reaching for the man's face to scratch and maul, ripping and tearing with now rapidly dirty nail, face decaying, white hair falling out...  
  
"Wiiicckkkeeeddd man" he hisses "Wicked, wicked, wicked man who lets little girls die naked and alone, who allows young men to be tortured in his place, wicked wicked wicked wicked wicked..."  
  
The man allows the tears to flow as the hands ripped at his face, and he only chokes out a last word  
  
"Hassan..."  
  
The darkness lifts.  
  
He is alone in his bed, and his eyes are open. Red brown eyes.  
  
He turns to his friend.  
  
"How long was I under, Oran?"  
  
"About...five minutes. Raimi?"  
  
"I'm reading positive...how do you feel, Hassan?"  
  
"Better....but really Oran, I think ripping your face is a BIT too graphic for my taste."  
  
Oran just shakes his head and scratches his beard.  
  
"Do what will it be now? Another run to clear it all out or....?"  
  
"Please."  
  
The two men leave the room, just the laptop to occupy him. He clicks. He has yet to fully understand the complexities of laptops. He has worked with larger computers before, but not with small ones like this. He clicks.   
  
Wireless net is a good thing on a island.  
  
He opens.   
  
And among many faces, there are two he only focuses upon.  
  
The face of the man he had grew up with...and the miracle. One he has never met, but seen instead in light the night the sky fell down.  
  
The warrior. The goddess.  
  
The only two he reads.  
  
Perhaps one day he will truly get rid of the bad taste of the rape and torture he had experienced.   
  
But for now....  
  
There is only silence and the humming of the laptop fan.  
  
Author's Notes: Oi vey. I wrote this after seeing 24 of Broken Saints, and felt little sad about the ending. I was bored and was listening to Evanescence, so...voila.  
  
The picture at the end of this piece is :  
  
http://wwww.brokensaints.com/memories/images/memories-014.jpg  
  
If you don't understand this at ALL, go watch the series fercrhisssakes. ;)  
  
Verrryyyy interesting little bit about Hassan.   
  
www.brokensaints.com 


End file.
